


Damn His Dark Eyes!

by morwrach



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Background Silver/Muldoon and Jack/Anne, Canon divergent AU set around S2, Dubious levels of personal hygiene, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Historically accurate card games, Just 2 bisexual disasters accidentally falling in love, M/M, Masturbation, Sea Shanties, drinking and talking, messy blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: It's not a complete surprise to John Silver that his appointment to Quartermaster has gained him an adversary. He just didn't expect to fall in love with him.





	Damn His Dark Eyes!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in the works for so long that it’s become a labour of love. Special shoutout to mapped & craftnarok for listening to me go on about it for over a year, and to craftnarok for being my John Silver Specialist. Thankyou.
> 
> \- and shoutout to you, if you ship this rarest of pairs. Good to know I’m not alone. <3

“For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?”

– William Shakespeare, _Much Ado About Nothing._

 

Nassau, New Providence Island. 17 –

 

John Silver has held the position of Quartermaster of The Walrus for three short months when he gains a nemesis. Unlike the normal progression of these things, there are no offended virtues or besmirching pamphlets distributed or pistols cocked at dawn; in fact, the appointment occurs without him having any say in it at all.

It is an unassuming evening when he first meets the insufferable popinjay who will later come to occupy his waking thoughts. They’d taken a prize, the men of the Walrus, a haul hefty enough to line their pockets for months to come, and to reluctantly but dutifully pay a profitable percentage to “the Guthrie Woman.” Like all good prizes, it had been hard won and the rewards stretched beyond reales and dollars, to respect earned, favours repaid, and bonds of brotherhood forged stronger than ever. A merrier ship had never made port, and though they were unshaven, their clothes soaked in dried sweat and salt-spray, and the fair majority of them on the unsightly side of handsome, the collective ego of The Walrus men shone like the sun. The tavern was in their sights, and though Silver had business to attend to with Flint first, Muldoon’s arm was slung across his shoulders with the promise of a lively night.

Regrettably, Muldoon slips away as they burst through the doors of the tavern, leaving him alone with Flint, the only member of The Walrus who never seems happy however victorious they have been. Perhaps it’s a Captain’s prerogative to be perpetually unsatisfied, always on the lookout for a greater prize. Silver surmises the sulky demeanour might be part of the man’s ‘Captain Flint’ persona and only surface deep.

The tavern is alive with activity, noisy with the conversation of the inebriated, and warm from the crush of bodies leaning at the bar or crowded around tables. Lit by candlelight, the space is divided into small pockets of light and darkness. Flint pushes his way through the throng, and Silver follows close behind. Through the burnished gloom, he can pick out Eleanor Guthrie. She’s holding her court towards the back of the tavern, one hand gesticulating and the other resting on her hip, unimpressed. The candlelight glints off her blonde hair and her piqued expression. To her right sits Gates, promoted to Eleanor’s right hand since his departure from, in his own words, “the high seas, high risk life.” Silver can’t help thinking that getting involved with the trading of stolen goods isn’t exactly a safe career move, but since it resulted in his own rise to the rank of Quartermaster, he can hardly complain.

The meeting is quick and perfunctory – Guthrie clearly isn’t messing around tonight, that or something’s put her in a sour mood. Probably Vane, whose crew is contributing to much of the tavern’s noise. Thankfully Flint is appeased, business is concluded, and Silver is free to scour the room for Muldoon, a warm beer, and a hot meal that wasn’t rendered tasteless by Randall. Before he can locate any of the these, Silver’s resolute plan for an evening free of responsibilities is scuppered in a way he could never have anticipated.

He spots Logan at a table in the corner, wearing a look of miserable exasperation; and by the looks of it, losing badly at cards. Silver pauses mid-stride. Logan’s opponent is immediately recognisable; a figure Silver has previously only seen in fragments – framed through the circle of a brothel peephole and illuminated by flickering torchlight between the jagged outlines of The Wrecks. Jack Rackham, Captain Vane’s right hand man. He recalls Rackham’s birds nest hair and his short-sighted hunger for glory, both now tamed into something more relaxed and cultured. He smacks down his hand of cards with a look of smug satisfaction and Logan visibly crumples.

“That’ll be the third of your crew Rackham’s fleeced tonight,” a passing patron comments helpfully, “I’d start teaching them to play cards better if I were you…”

Silver gives a heavy sigh of resignation. He can hardly let it become common knowledge that the Walrus Crew are easily touched for coin, or worse, information. He tries to sweep the thought aside, but it’s pointless. Before his mind can struggle over the decision, his conscience is taking his feet over to Logan to intervene.

Logan relinquishes his chair with barely concealed relief, and at a look from Silver he shuffles off into the crowd.

“Another time then, Mr Logan,” Jack pronounces airily, before turning his full attention on Silver.

Jack proffers a hand in greeting, before giving his own name like an attendant announcing the arrival of His Majesty The King, “Jack Rackham, Quartermaster of The Ranger.”

He smells overpoweringly of cologne and the hand in question is grimy, but Silver takes it anyway before introducing himself.

Jack’s eyes flash with recognition. “Ah, Mr Silver. I have been curious to meet the man who could follow the esteemed Mr Gates.”

“Whereas I merely want to find the source of my crew’s recent financial misfortunes,” Silver replies easily, sitting down.

“Surely you can’t consider it misfortune if they were fairly outmatched,” Jack suggests. He licks his finger and wetly flattens down one side of his moustache before continuing grandly, “Though, it is a common fault of men not to reckon on storms in fair weather.”

Christ. Rackham is not only a vain fop but is apparently also possessed of limitless braggadocio. Silver is beginning to seriously regret having an attack of good conscience. The prospect of having to tolerate Rackham for much longer is insufferable. Then again, the thought of Rackham patting himself on the back if he walks away is also too much to bear.

“If you’re so confident in your own abilities, you won’t object to a wager” Silver suggests, “– my clearly superior intellect against my crew’s money.”

“I accept your challenge,” Jack says, a bit too loudly, “What will it be? Conquian? Tressette? Mariage?”

Silver doesn’t play cards regularly. If anything, he finds the mass of rules tiresome, but it’s proved a good way to get close to people without really getting close at all. A handy talent for one who drifts between ships. Plus, there is something enjoyable to be found in uncovering people’s tells and ill-conceived bluffs. But none of the games Jack has named will cut it now. He needs something complex enough that someone drunk on their own success and no small measure of alcohol will stumble over, something more reliant on skill than chance, where pride will get in the way of sense…

“Piquet,” says Silver definitively. It’s a trick-taking game of six sets, with the points all added together at the end. Just the kind of thing to outstep a drunkard and still have some evening left afterwards.

Jack nods approvingly and begins to sort the deck of grubby cards. He’s evidently aiming for suave but fails impressively as he drops a few and has to begin again. This is going to be almost too easy.

As Rackham studies his cards, Silver studies Rackham. He’s leaning right back in his seat with his legs extended so that his dirty boots rest invasively under Silver’s chair. His hazy gaze rests somewhere off in the distance. If he were any more relaxed, he’d be asleep.

Rackham stumbles through the first two sets. He makes a series of small, avoidable mistakes, brow furrowing when Silver presses the advantage in response. Luck isn’t entirely on Silver’s side, but some tactical manoeuvres allow him to win both without too much effort. Jack takes bigger and bigger gulps of beer.

Things start to turn sour in the third set. Rackham makes a convincing show of having a terrible hand, only to come out with high scoring kings and aces. He’s so nonchalant about it that Silver’s almost convinced it was a surprise to both of them, until he does the same thing in the fourth round.

As Silver deals the cards for the fifth set, Rackham sits forward in his seat and leans his elbows on the table. Suddenly, his gaze is alert and inquisitive: assessing, prying. He picks at his teeth with a fingernail and studies Silver with an intensity that’s mildly unsettling.

The fifth set goes as badly as the fourth. Unknown to Rackham, they have chased each other’s tails before, soft-footed over The Wrecks, but this time it appears that his opponent is winning. Despite his initial estimation of Jack’s overly-optimistic foolhardiness, it appears he is sorely outmatched with little sense of what would get under his opponent’s skin efficiently enough to save the Walrus crew’s sovereigns. He attempts some verbal barbs on the topic of The Ranger Crew’s intelligence, or lack thereof, but they glance off Rackham like waves off a ship’s prow.

A little smirk tugs at the corner of Rackham’s mouth as he coolly wins the final set. He readjusts the cuffs of his inadvisably-patterned shirt and pays Silver’s glower little attention.

“I don’t think there’s any point in counting up the scores,” he declares, pausing before adding “- do you?”

Silver tries not to rise to this final small challenge and fails. He sulkily grits out “No,” and resists the childish urge to kick Rackham’s seat out from under him.

“And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must attend to my thirst.” Jack announces, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr Silver.”

He’s seemingly genuine, and extends a hand which Silver pointedly refuses to shake. Jack seems unbothered, counting up his purloined riches and rising from his seat with a flourish.

“You make a marvellous adversary.” he declares cheerfully, before clapping him on the shoulder, and sauntering off towards the bar, sober as a judge and with the crew’s money in his pockets.

Silver just sits there, blinking. His incredulity eventually gives way to the bitter realisation that he’s been taken in by an act of deception that was nothing short of masterful. And by Rackham of all people! That’s what stings most. He’s needlessly theatrical! Unnecessarily verbose! Unrepentantly arrogant! Vain! He is infuriating – which is to say, he is fascinating beyond all measure and reason.

 

 

*

 

Silver suffers the misfortune of encountering The Ranger’s poor excuse for a Quartermaster again less than two weeks later. It happens quite by accident – no man desirous of keeping his coin or his good mood would choose to spend time with Rackham, Silver suspects. The Walrus has endured a voyage beset with squabbling and petty disagreements; not unsuccessful but not exactly pleasant. They’ve barely put into port when Dufresne is calling for “a word.” Dufresne’s definition of “a word” differs dramatically from Silver’s own. If he lets Dufresne have “a word,” he’s set for hours upon hours of ‘helpful’ suggestions for crew management, invented complaints, and no small amount of weasel-words. In short, an evening that he can’t be fucking bothered with.

With some swift-footed outmanoeuvring, he manages to evade Dufresne until he reaches the tavern. Realistically, he should just hole up in some rooms to complete his escape, but he’s in sore need of a drink. Why can’t he just bugger off? Silver ducks behind a tall figure at the bar, and finally allows himself to relax.

“If it isn’t my favourite nemesis!” says an all-too-familiar voice, all too close by. It’s only then that Silver realises who the tall man currently concealing him from view is.

Rackham stands over Silver in the manner of a man attempting to loom. Attempting being the operative word, since, lacking the necessary bulk, Rackham fails to give the impression of being a fearsome brute and instead rather resembles a mainmast with the colours flapping cheerily in the breeze.

“I didn’t seek you out, before you jump to that conclusion,” says Silver, “I’m - hiding from someone.”

Jack looks around almost immediately. He glances about conspicuously, before leaning on the bar again.

“And would you like a drink whilst you’re lying low from your own crew?”

“Not my whole crew! Just one particularly trying individual,” Silver counters, “and I’ll have a beer. But you’re paying.”

“Mm,” Rackham assents, in a way that suggests he reckons that’s a fair enough demand after last time.

He leans into Silver’s personal space to catch the attention of the barkeep, and once again Silver is struck by the wet-dog-masked-by-French-cologne smell that is apparently intrinsically Rackham. He inches carefully away.

Just as Silver takes his first, very welcome sip of beer a crowd of rowdy, punch-drunk men enter the tavern, clearly looking for either a fight or a piss-up, and very likely both.

“Ugh,” Rackham remarks, putting a hand to his brow, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

“Alright Jack!” one of the men calls out as they throng past, punching Rackham hard on the arm in a macho sort of greeting. “Joining us for a barrel?”

“Alas, as you can see I’m already preoccupied,” Rackham says, without a hint of disappointment. The crew moves past, clearly expecting this response.

“I can go,” Silver jokes, “If you’d rather - ” he gestures towards the crew.

“Please.” Rackham says with a grimace, “More of their conversation would infect my brain.”

Jesus. More Shakespeare. An image springs to Silver’s mind of Jack sitting alone in his rooms memorising lines and reciting them to the empty air. It’s probably not too far from the truth.

“Do you have any words of your own, I wonder, or do you just poach them from greater men?”

Unexpectedly, Rackham grins. Silver realises that what he had thought was a well-placed stab was actually akin to presenting Rackham with a gift. He’s probably been quoting Shakespeare to all and sundry in the hope of catching someone who also appreciates the bard.

“I prefer to think of myself as Nassau’s favourite unpaid and unacknowledged actor.” says Rackham. “Although,” he muses, “Nassau’s full of actors. You yourself play the role of a doting Quartermaster to great effect.”

“Whereas you play the fool very believably,” Silver suggests, “I see you are a method actor.” Barb for barb only seems like a fair exchange.

“You speak poniards and every word stabs!” Rackham says, eyes gleaming. Yet more Shakespeare.

“What can I say? You make a remarkably effective whetstone,” replies Silver, smiling.

“Yes, I believe Charles finds me so too,” Rackham muses, “an effective sharpener of his thoughts.”

“I usually find the role of Quartermaster involves tempering sharp thoughts rather than sharpening them even further,” considers Silver.

Rackham leans forward. “Tell me – how does a ship’s cook catch the ear of Captain Flint?”

“Let’s just say I can be very charming,” Silver says, with what he hopes is a winning smile.

“or did you perhaps have something of value to barter with?” Rackham wonders, a bit too accurately for Silver’s liking. It’s unnerving how quickly he can shift from breezy to sharp.

“It’s hard to underestimate how appealing good cooking is to a crew living on ship’s biscuits and watered down rum…” Silver chances, a response which seems to confuse Rackham more than anything. Good, wrongfooted.

“Where does _your_ story begin?” asks Silver, in the attempt to redirect the conversation into calmer waters.

“Leeds,” Rackham says, proudly. “My father – ”

“Not the most auspicious of geographical beginnings for a pirate,” Silver cuts in, thinking of Flint, Dooley, and Gates, all born within spitting distance of the sea.

“There you’re wrong,” Rackham says, triumphantly. “Yorkshire produced Lancelot Blackburne, a buccaneer feared throughout the West Indies! On his return to England, he was made Archbishop of York.”

“Is the clergy a common career move for Yorkshire pirates?” jokes Silver, “Should I be expecting you to appear in a cassock any day now?”

“My morals are far too lax for the clerical life,” Rackham says “ - and besides, I haven’t a single shred of belief in God. The only gods are the ones we make of our fellow men.”

“and who penned that little epithet?”

“Jack Rackham,” he says smugly, and Silver has to reluctantly admit a measure of admiration.

 

*

 

Weeks turn into months at sea, and yet it’s always buzzing in his blood: the promise of a challenge, a verbal exchange of quick quips and perfectly aimed barbs, and a mutual love of language and what it can do. He imagines ways to pull the rug out from under Jack Rackham as he strides the quarterdeck. Spinning tales to the crew becomes a rehearsal for spinning a tale to Rackham.

Fact-checking Rackham’s tall tales of The Ranger and his own impressive feats of wit and ingenuity prove a trying and frustrating task. It’s a difficult thing, asking about a member of a rival crew without igniting suspicions of imminent crew-jumping. The last thing he needs right now is to lose the loyalty and respect of the men, or of his Captain.

“The man’s a beau-nasty, full of hot air and folderol.” Flint huffs, biting back a grimace, “I’d wager our Mr Randall has more seamanship.”

Silver offers a breezy laugh in response. He turns away from Flint and gazes upon the glittering waves, but a nagging sense of indignation swells in his chest, for he has seen the fire in Rackham.

“Sweet on him, are you?” Muldoon asks, with a little smirk, fit only to be answered with derision and a playful shove. He isn’t sweet on Rackham anyway, merely intrigued – and looking for a chink in his armour, the perfect jibe to put his nose out of joint like a cannonball to the mainmast.

If his spirits soar at the prospect of verbally sparring with Rackham again, then it’s easily written off as the expectation of putting into port.

They fall into a kind of rhythm – the posturing of rivals upon first meeting, a trading of barbs and taunts delivered with panache and false enmity, before retiring to a dimly lit corner to trade tales and discuss the exasperation of combating something they begin to call “Nonsensical Captain logic.” The topic of a game of cards isn’t brought up again, not since that first night.

After a few months, Silver has come to learn a great deal about Jack’s life before Nassau, but Jack never pries when he doesn’t reciprocate. He often leaves a small barely perceptible pause for Silver to spin a tale from his own life, but he doesn’t question it when nothing is forthcoming. Late nights talking with Jack are almost restful. It’s easy to sit back and be lulled by alcohol and Jack’s slow, languorous way of speaking. The man is a consummate storyteller, and Silver admires his embroidering of the truth, the stylish little exaggerations that are so believable that it’s impossible to tell where they begin and end. The glamorising of his hard past is as skilfully done as Silver’s own acts of avoidance and vagueness.

“Back then I was more Jack Tar than Jack Rackham,” he would begin, “all I had was my wits, my razor, my skill at cards, and the best ponytail in the Royal Navy…”

He often runs a hand over the long hair at the nape of his neck, a remnant of that naval hairstyle.

The nights inevitably end the same way, with Anne giving Jack a little tilt of the head that sends him running away with puppy-dog eyes and a speedy farewell; or with Vane staggering around bawling about god knows what. To this Rackham will raise his eyebrows in an expression of weary annoyance clearly staged for Silver’s benefit, before putting his arm around Vane’s shoulders and half-carrying him towards his lodgings.

One such night reveals a telling detail, as Silver watches Jack approach a heavily-inebriated Vane and put a careful hand on his broad shoulder, only to have it shrugged off – and there it is, a point of weakness. The fleeting expression which crosses Jack’s face isn’t carefully crafted annoyance, but the pain of rejection, not of a friend, but of a would-be lover. There is, in Jack’s tired sadness, the attitude of a wound long-suffered in silence, a futile but persistent yearning. The soft spot is there, the chink in the armour, the fatal flaw – and yet, against his better judgement, Silver cannot find it within him to slide in the blade. In an act he will later tell himself was pity, he calls Jack back over, plies him with taunts and opportunities to flaunt his intellectualism, and four hours later when Jack traipses off in the direction of his own lodgings, swaying on his long legs whilst hollering out a discordant rendition of _Bully in the Alley,_ the opportunity to strike has been long forgotten.

Later that night, the evening’s discovery fishes a memory unbidden from Silver’s head. A month previously Jack, utterly sloshed, had clumsily leaned forward and trailed his grubby fingertips along Silver’s stolen shirt, commenting grandly “I could tailor you the finest shirt you’ve ever worn. It’d fit you a damn sight better than this sack…”

The offer had warmed him, he remembers. Looking back now, he can see that Jack’s drunkenness was too affected to be genuine, and the touch of his hand too hesitant to be inebriated. Silver lies awake with the thought of the gleam in Jack’s dark eyes and the pressure of his fingertips and thinks “well…….fuck.” How had it come to THIS? How has he been too distracted to realise that feelings have crept into this fucking odd friendship he’d been enjoying? He tries not to prod to see how deep the fondness goes, and instead slips his hand into his trousers.

 

*

 

There’s a change in the air when they next meet – an intangible thrum of potential, the kind of unspoken understanding and mutual energy that sparks revolutions, incites conspiracies, and gives physical form to unvoiced desires.

Silver reaches the tavern to find Jack leaning against the bar, gesticulating with those dirty, elegant hands of his. He’s glorious like this, engaged in recounting some tall story to the barkeep; eyes alight with the delight of keeping a listener in suspense. He smirks when he sees Silver coming, a little tell-tale quirk of his lips. There’s a familiarity in the way he swaggers forward to greet him, all the attitude of a rival with the smile of a friend.

Jack’s shirt is unbuttoned even lower than usual, and his customary silver necklace now glints against the outline of a collarbone. Silver’s gaze catches on the triangle of Jack’s skin now gleaming in the candlelight. He recognises it for what it is immediately – a provocation just like their usual verbal barbs. The sweat on Jack’s chest glistens like a challenge.

“Hand of cards?” Jack suggests, with a sly look about him.

“Not fucking likely,” Silver says, “I know you too well to fall for that particular trap, my friend.”

“A drink then,” Rackham concedes, “A drink and a tale?”

“Lead on then, Gulliver,” Silver replies, “Perhaps we can reach your meeting with Julius Caesar’s ghost tonight.”

Jack laughs. Their shoulders bump together as they lean at the bar, and even from such a small, unintentional touch, Silver feels a tug of longing. He leans uncertainly into Jack’s side, just to see what will happen, and is gratified when Jack subtly presses back under the guise of reaching for his drink.

“In the navy, they used to call me The Needle…” Jack begins, when they have finally found a secluded corner.

Silver experimentally bites the edge of his own thumb and is gratified when Jack seems to temporarily lose the power of speech. His dark eyes linger unsubtly on Silver’s mouth.

“Was it thanks to your skill at mending?” Silver prompts, unperturbed “or on account of your lean physique?” He drags his eyes over Jack, pointedly.

Jack noticeably swallows, before declaring “I can confirm that both were factors, a keen observation as usual. But no! It was largely on account of my talent with a stiletto blade…”

“Ah yes, your famous stiletto blade. I recall it almost took my best eye…”

Jack flinches. As his gaze fixes upon Silver with a direct alertness, he is suddenly aware that he really, really shouldn’t have said that.

“That was you on the other side of the wall, Max’s secret accomplice?” Jack asks, sharply.

“Yes,” Silver forces out.

“At The Wrecks too?” Jack asks, “Leading me a merry dance?”

“Yes,” Silver answers, “I was shit-scared, if it’s any comfort.”

He’s tense, and ready to bolt. With one stupid slip of the tongue, he’s jeopardised everything. Jack had seemed like a shallow fool before, but he knows Jack’s capacity for violence all too well to underestimate him again.

Jack leans back in his chair, considering “And how did you get away?”

“Hid under a blanket and pretended to be one of those poor souls, huddling by the fire. I waited until I heard you fall into the water, burnt the page, and made a run for it – right into Flint.”

“Ah, the start of a productive partnership for you – and a world of trouble for me.” Jack says miserably, putting a hand through his hair. “The Ranger men almost gutted me like a fish.”

“If you’re looking for an apology you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Silver bites out, half rising from his chair “and if I’ve lowered your good opinion of me, well, you must be a very poor judge of character after all.”

“John,” Jack says in a low, slow voice, before reaching out a hand and laying it on Silver’s arm. He sits back, uneasy, and Jack continues. “I daresay your stunt at The Wrecks hurt The Ranger and caused me a great deal of personal humiliation, but it’s practically ancient history. Surely you must know I feel nothing but admiration for you now, as both a fellow tactician – and as a man.”

Silver opens his mouth to say something, anything - but Jack just gives his arm a grounding squeeze and announces, “After that startling revelation, I think a glass of wine is in order.”

He disappears to the bar, leaving Silver alone - feeling uncomfortably vulnerable and unaccountably tender.

“Have I ever told you about the time I hoodwinked a Spanish Captain out of his favourite coat?” asks Jack, throwing himself down next to Silver with little regard for personal space and proffering a refilled glass.

Silver feels curiously warm. It’s the port wine, he reasons, as he turns to Rackham with an expectant smile. Jack wets his lips before launching into another tall tale, and Silver watches the path of his tongue.

The night dwindles away in a haze of wit, words, and wine; pleasantly uninterrupted by Vane, Anne, or members of the Walrus, but it still seems like no time at all til the barkeep is calling last orders.

Silver watches Jack’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows his last mouthful of wine. Unexpressed things hang in the air between them.

“If your mighty thirst remains unquenched, I’ve got a bottle of port in my rooms,” Jack announces, with the air of someone absent-mindedly remarking on the weather.

“How could I resist such an offer with this poor excuse for drink?” Silver quips back, though they both know they aren’t negotiating the quality of alcohol available.

Silver generously leaves Jack to leave payment on the table – he had boasted of The Ranger’s recent success after all – and stands up to shrug his jacket back onto his shoulders. He sways on his feet and blinks the bleary fog away from his vision. Alcohol, his rational inner voice comments impassively. Sea legs, he reassures himself.

Jack sings his way through the streets, seemingly quite happy to sling one arm over Silver’s shoulders and sweep the other into the air like a grand narrator. As Jack confidently murders another verse of _Jolly Roving Tar_ , Silver wonders how his companion has avoided being attacked more often.

Parading through Nassau with a veritable popinjay bellowing out favourite shanties of the British Royal Navy should be keenly embarrassing, and yet he can’t find it within himself to care. Especially not when Jack’s hand slips along his shoulder as he cheerily sings the line “when the money’s gone it’s the same old song – get up Jack! John sit down!”

As they reach the brothel, Jack skips a few verses ahead to discordantly arrive at the lyric “When Jack gets in it’s then he’ll steer to some old boarding house..”

The fragile thing between them feels disconcertingly brittle as they weave through the girls and climb the rotting wood stairs to Jack’s lodgings, and Silver momentarily considers turning tail and leaving. But Jack turns and shoots him a look that is knowingly sly, and all thoughts of leaving flee from his mind.

He ushers Silver through the door, before slipping through himself and closing the door behind him with one dextrous foot. The room in front of him is surprisingly bare of possessions. A small lamp burns in the corner, illuminating the bed in a warm light. A pile of well-thumbed books sits on a side table, and a half assembled shirt is draped over a chair with tailor’s measure and needle and thread close by. There’s no sign of Anne.

Jack sloughs off his calico jacket and drapes it carefully over the chair, before turning, all long limbs and dark eyes, to face Silver. He looks lost, all bravado gone. Silver feels that frustrating twinge again – to let himself feel.

"Tell me if I'm misreading your motives in luring me to your bedroom..." Silver murmurs, stepping into Jack’s personal space and running one hand slowly and inevitably up his chest. Under his palm, Jack’s body feels warm through his thin shirt. "…but I don't see that promised bottle anywhere…"

His fingertips slip over Jack’s collar, over that triangle of skin that’s been tormenting him all night, through the sparse hair on his nemesis’ – friend’s – chest. Jack leans into his touch.

Silver tangles his fingers in Jack's jaunty scarf and tugs lightly. He watches Jack’s throat move as he swallows.

“I’d say your estimation is correct…” Jack manages to say, in a slightly breathless voice.

He still looks uncertain, shoulders tense and a soft hopefulness in his eyes. His gaze flickers to Silver’s mouth and then away again as if ashamed. His lips are slightly parted.

Silver releases his grip on the knot of the scarf in favour of cupping Jack’s jaw. He runs his thumb along the line of one sharp sideburn, feeling the bristles of hair against his skin. Jack’s breath is warm and damp against his hand.

Jack smiles into the kiss when their mouths meet, mumbles something which might be “fuck yes” but could easily be “oh god,” before crowding Silver backwards until he bumps up against the wall. Jack’s tongue is just as skilled at kissing as it is at verbal sparring. He could happily lose himself in this, all soft moist fumbling lips and catches of breath. The noise from downstairs seems to melt away, until the world narrows to the warmth of Jack’s body.

To anchor himself, he weaves his fingers into his companion’s ridiculous hair, soft at the nape of his neck. Jack takes this as an invitation to tangle his own fingers into Silver’s curls, which he does with careful gentleness.

Pushing aside the disconcerting feeling of being touched with deliberate tenderness, Silver tugs on that ridiculous hair and Jack moans hotly into his mouth. He breaks away to mouth wetly over Silver’s neck before pulling open the shirt he had judgementally deemed “sailcloth” a few months previously. He ghosts hot breath over Silver’s collarbone before biting down. Fuck. Going home with Rackham was a golden idea, truly one of his best.

As Silver’s hands explore the wiry muscles of Jack’s shoulders and upper arms, that talented mouth continues to press ardent kisses to the base of his neck, wandering hands stroking and caressing lower and lower.

For one glorious moment, Silver feels the press of Jack’s palm against the growing hardness in his trousers – and then that heavenly pressure is just as quickly gone. Oh god, why has he stopped? Silver barely restrains himself from crying out.

Jack pulls back, bottom lip caught between his brown teeth.

“May I?” Jack asks hoarsely, long fingers toying with the fastenings of Silver’s trousers.

Silver blinks, frustrated.

The “yes, god, yes” is out of his mouth before he can stop it. Jack looks extremely pleased with himself, deftly undoing Silver’s belt with a smug little smile.

Attempting to claw back some semblance of control, Silver spreads his arms wide and tries to follow with a smooth “by all means, go ahead, do whatever you want” which to his mild mortification comes out far more frustrated and insistent than he had intended.

Jack chuckles, and Silver laughs back, at the ridiculousness of the situation and partially at himself; before Jack drops effortlessly to his knees on the dusty floor and Silver’s laugh quickly turns into a groan.

There’s a soft look in Jack’s eyes as his deft fingers make quick work of Silver’s fly. It’s gratefulness, he realises, and the thought is enough to make him reach down to stroke Jack’s cheek. Jack brings one dirty hand up to cover Silver’s own, before bringing it to his mouth and kissing it.

With one final glance of his twinkling dark eyes, Jack bobs his head and groans with apparent relief as he wetly takes the tip of Silver’s cock into his mouth. Silver feels a satisfying thrum of power watching Jack's lips close around the head, a feeling swiftly overcome by a wave of fondness as his dark eyes flutter shut.

Jack blindly reaches out one grubby hand for Silver’s own, before winding their fingers together and clasping his hand with surprising tenderness. His other hand holds steadily onto Silver’s hip. Watching Jack's loquacious mouth stretch around him as he slowly, inch by inch, swallows his cock rips a shuddering breath from Silver. Fucking hell. Vane doesn’t know what he’s missing.

Jack releases his vice-like grip on Silver’s hip in favour of hurriedly undoing the fastenings of his own breeches with one hand. He tugs down the flap with impatience, before reaching inside with those long, beautiful fingers and drawing out his hard cock. For a whisper-thin moment Silver regrets that their current position prevents him from seeing, before Jack gasps out a litany of “ah, ah, ah” and pitches forward to deepthroat him once again. He sucks with renewed vigour, fisting his cock in time with the slick slide of Silver’s between his lips.

God, it's a glorious sight to gaze down upon, the Quartermaster of the Ranger down on his knees on the floor, pleasuring himself with one elegant hand whilst whining and moaning around Silver's cock. He sucks like he's been starved of it, taking Silver's whole length until the head pushes into his throat, impossibly hot and wet and heavenly. Through half-closed eyes, Silver watches Jack take him deep again and again, each time choking and spluttering and groaning and working his own cock even faster. There's a wet patch pooling on the floor beneath them, spit and precum. He strokes Jack's dark, messy hair in response, and the simultaneous harshness and softness seems to turn his companion on more.

As he moans and chokes around Silver’s cock towards climax, Silver reflects that it’s just about the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, even considering that rum-soaked night with Muldoon underneath the palm trees on Jaragua.

It doesn’t take long before Silver’s coming, with his fingers tight in Rackham’s hair and his chest heaving. His head thwacks back against the wall as he relaxes, taking huge gulps of air. Jack pulls off, resting his cheek gently against Silver’s hip. His eyes are closed, lashes fanning across his cheek. There’s a soft smile playing on his lips.

For once Silver is completely lost for words.

“Fuck,” Silver manages to murmur eventually, “That was…”

Jack opens his eyes and smiles up at him like the cat who got the cream, spit still glistening on his lower lip.

Silver finds himself smiling back. Warmth blossoms in his chest, a feeling that would be frightening, if he wasn’t basking in post-coital bliss.

Half-dressed and staggering on weak legs, Silver and Jack stumble to his bed and collapse in a heap of limbs. After the hardness of the wall, Jack’s uneven lumpy mattress feels like the softest thing invented. Jack would probably have likened their trousers-around-their-ankles handsy stumble to bed to some Shakespearean farce, Silver thinks, sleepily smirking to himself. He turns to comment as such, but Jack is already asleep.

Silver waits until Jack’s sleeping soundly, face soft and slack with slumber, before carefully untangling his fingers from their clasped embrace. Jack’s dark eyelashes flutter as Silver lifts his weight from the bed, but he doesn’t rouse. As Jack mumbles something fond into his pillow, Silver slips away, soft-footed, into the humid, starlit night.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Notes -
> 
> Piquet originated in Spain, around 1500. It's a scientific game, and it is possible to figure out exactly which cards your opponent holds by noting your own cards and your opponent’s discards. As a result, it was a popular choice for betting games, which eventually led to it being banned by the King of France. It was played by European gentry and sailors alike.
> 
> Jack sings 'Jolly Roving Tar' and 'Bully In The Alley' both of which were popular sea shanties on British ships, and around the Caribbean. Both date from a while later than Black Sails, but I'm allowing myself some artistic license. There are really nice versions of them on Spotify, on the albums 'Steady As She Goes' and 'Rousing Songs From The Age of Sail'. :)
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr @nettlekettle](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) \- feel very welcome to come chat to me!


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